“I wasn't even born then,” Jackson growled. At twenty-six, he was very much the youngest member of Team One. He’d grown up in a world where superhumans were real, an accepted part of the landscape, rather than characters in comic books and movies. But, unlike so many others, he’d never really entertained a dream of donning a cape and setting out to fight crime or serve his country in the SDI. “And you know that perfectly well.”
“They were talking about putting superhumans in camps, or setting aside private towns for them—and mutants,” Ron said. “Humanity doesn’t respond well when it discovers something new to separate one group of people from another. I remember a Senator making a statement about requiring all superhumans to be sterilised—apparently, he believed that superhumans represented a whole new species and that they had to be prevented from breeding for the safety of the human race. Those who thought that superhumans were just the next step on the evolutionary chain opposed it because they believed that more and more superhumans would appear, to the point where we would effectively slaughter the entire human race.”
Jackson nodded, slowly. America had been lucky, in many ways; other states had had real problems controlling their superhumans. Some had brainwashed or purged every superhuman they encountered; others had collapsed into civil wars that were often spearheaded by rogue superhumans. It was a minor miracle that there had only been one Dr. Death, although Team Omega’s files suggested that that was far from certain. There were plenty of unanswered questions about what the Russians or the Chinese had done in their sealed science cities, away from prying eyes.
“So we do what we can to deal with the ones who pose a real threat and leave those who don’t pose a threat to live normal lives, if that is what they want,” Ron concluded. “It isn't a perfect solution, but there’s no such thing outside comic books and the imagination.” He shrugged. “Don’t you find the debate important, Corporal?”
Jackson snorted. After he’d completed three missions, Lane had surprised him by announcing an immediate promotion to Corporal. Jackson, who had given up all hopes of promotion while he’d been in the Marine Corps, had stammered out an acceptance while the rest of Team One laughed, although he’d quickly discovered that rank didn't mean as much to the teams as it did to the more hierarchical Marine Corps. But it did mean additional pay and benefits, something that would be important when he retired or returned to the Marines. If he ever did...he knew that several operatives had served until they died in the line of duty and, in truth, he didn't want to go back to the Corps. Team Omega satisfied his need for action, for doing something, even if there was the risk of crippling injury, or death. The thought made him smile, ruefully. No one who wanted a safe life joined the Marine Corps.
“I think I’ll have to wait until I get promoted to General before I can have a say in the debate,” he said. He didn't really know which way to jump. Superhumans were dangerous, particularly the ones who operated outside the law or had no real training before they moved into public view. But just because some superhumans were dangerous was no excuse for treating all superhumans as potential enemies. “Don’t you have an opinion...?”
Their communicators buzzed before Ron could answer. “The girls are dancing hot tonight,” they said, and fell silent.
Ron blanched. “Come on,” he snapped, turning and leading the way back towards where they’d parked the van. “Hurry!”
Jackson didn't argue. Team Omega used a series of apparently-meaningless code words and phrases to pass instructions to operatives in the field without arousing enemy suspicion, assuming that the enemy could pick up on American transmissions. Any mention of girls dancing, he’d been told, meant that they had to drop everything and return to base at once, whatever the situation. From what the Sergeant had said while he’d been briefing Jackson on the codes, they weren't even used in drills. Using one of the codes meant that there was a real emergency.
“Put the light on the roof,” Ron ordered, as he climbed into the van and started the engine. A quick tap of a switch altered the licence plates, turning the van into a federal vehicle, complete with siren and permission to disregard the laws of the road. “Get inside—see what you can pull off the net.”
Jackson nodded as he scrambled into the van and closed the door. Ron gunned the engine and drove off before Jackson even had a chance to sit down properly; once he was settled, he removed the secure laptop from the hidden compartment and opened it up. Team Omega had top-priority access to the Secret Internet Protocol Router Network, but he’d used it enough to know that certain events weren't often uploaded onto the network until the political leadership and senior Generals had a chance to look at it first. Team Omega was unusual in that it shared intelligence with its entire complement of officers and operatives; the remainder of the military and intelligence community preferred to keep intelligence to itself. Even the Slaughter Affair and the CIA’s massive failures in Latin America hadn't changed the system.
“There’s a full alert underway,” he said, grimly. There were few facts, as yet, but all military personnel had been ordered to report to their bases. Judging by some of the notes flickering through the network, civilian air traffic was being ordered to ground itself as quickly as possible, while the civilian police forces were being advised to call up their own personnel. It looked as if someone was expecting a war. “This can’t be happening.”
“Wait till we get to the base,” Ron advised. The civilian vehicles outside the van didn't seem to have any idea that a crisis was underway. Once the public realised what was going on, there would be panic as hundreds of thousands of people tried to flee the cities. But what the hell was going on? “The Captain will brief us there.”
***
“Our assassin miscarried,” General Kratman said, flatly.
Chester winced. He'd known that the operation was chancy—Level 5 superhumans were deadly dangerous, almost immune to conventional weapons—but he’d had more faith in the SDI than that. Failure meant that Hope had a good reason to be pissed off at the entire United States, not just the SDI. In hindsight, ordering the operation had been a dreadful mistake; he had no doubt that politicians were already planning their stories to convince the world that it had just been another rogue operation conducted by the intelligence community. After the Slaughter Affair, such a defence would be plausible, at least. He just doubted that Hope would accept the explanation.
“What happened?”
“Matt wasn't sure,” the General admitted. “Even though he’s stealthy as hell, he doesn't have any personal cloaking abilities and if he'd gone too close to Hope’s headquarters the bastard might have heard his heartbeat or breathing or something like that. All he could say was that Hope had been hurt, but managed to survive—and the assassin was captured. I think we must prepare for the worst.”
“Dear God,” Chester said. “Didn't you prepare her for mental interrogation?”
“We prepared her to deal with any normal telepath,” the General said. “The problem is that all mental defences are somewhat...unreliable. Given enough time and force, they break—and we have to assume that the Redeemer will have broken through the defences by now. They’ll know that the assassin was one of the covert operatives, and who gave her the orders to attempt to assassinate Hope.”
Chester winced. At the very least, the United States was about to have a severe public relations problem. Large parts of the population saw Hope as a hero, as the man who had finally decided to do something about hopeless states that needed help before they could stand up on their own two feet. Never mind the fact that sufficient pressure from those parts of the population could have convinced the government to intervene openly, sending troops into the Congo to quell the warlords and put an end to the fighting; they saw Hope as the man who had cut through the maze of corrupt UN representatives and charities that took donated money and did nothing to actually help the poor...right now, his standing was higher than the President’s. The polls had made it clear that Hope
was regarded as an honest man, the superhero who would always be brave, noble and true...while the government was regarded with suspicion. It didn't help that a number of Senators, pushed by lobbyists working for mining companies, had blocked any governmental assistance from America to the liberated Congo.
And you will be a target too, a small voice whispered at the back of his head.
“Damn,” he said, quietly.
Chester knew better—but then, he had access to files that the average person didn't even suspect existed. Superhumans were very human at heart; they had the same problems as any normal human, only on a grander scale. Chester had known that Hope had believed that he could bend the world to his will; no, that he should show the way and the rest of the world would willingly follow. But in choosing to cut through the Gordian knot, Hope had overlooked the complexity of the issues he proposed to challenge—and how his actions would be seen by the rest of the world. Hope would have been far more than human if he hadn't become increasingly frustrated and angry at the lack of any real help, or immediate success. Patience wasn't a trait in a man who could fly around the entire world in under an hour.
“I convinced Continental Command to put the military on alert,” the General said, grimly. “I think we must expect retaliation in some form. The President will have to be moved from the White House to a secure location—if anywhere can truly be called secure in a world of superhumans. Even without retaliation...”
Chester made a face. The American public was either worshipful or extremely cynical about public figures. Carter had been worshipped...and then hated after Iran had made the United States look weak and impotent. Reagan had done a great deal to restore the prestige of the United States, only to see it come crashing down when the Slaughter Affair called his administration into question and torpedoed his Vice President’s attempt to succeed him as President. Superhumans, on the other hand, had the backing of countless years of comic books; the true heroes were regarded as heroes, even if they had feet of clay. Superman, Batman, Captain America and Spiderman had a great deal to answer for, Chester had often thought, because in the end they lived in idealised worlds. The real world was a messy place.
“You’re right,” he said, grimly. “We have to assume the worst.”
Hope had over five hundred superhumans and mutants working for him in the Congo, an unprecedented gathering of superhuman power. Most of them weren't powerful enough to cause real trouble on their own, but the core Saviours group was definitely a real threat—and they had enough support to outnumber the SDI. Team Omega hadn’t been designed to deal with a full-scale superhuman war, yet if the SDI lost the fight, they’d be the only ones left. The rest of the military was even less prepared to fight so many superhumans...
They’d gambled—and they’d lost.
“You need to convince the President to speak to the nation,” Chester said, quietly. If worst came to worst, he would have to convince the President to let him and the General fall on their swords, if it would save the rest of the country. The President was surprisingly loyal to his closest allies and advisors, but that wasn't a virtue right now. “I’ll come with you to the White House.”
He hesitated. “How is the SDI handling it?”
“Most of them don’t know,” the General admitted. “I need to go to New York, to the base. You have to go to the President.”
Chester nodded. “Good luck, General,” he said. “God help us all.”
***
“All right, what’s up?”
The base was a whirlwind of activity. Officers and men from a dozen different units were running around like headless chickens, while helicopters and aircraft were buzzing overhead, either delivering men to the base or taking them to their deployment posts. Jackson had never seen the base so active, even during the deployment to Chicago—and it wasn't just Team Omega. Every unit on the base seemed to be going to war.
Ron stopped outside the barracks and pressed his hand against a fingerprint sensor, angrily vouching for Jackson when the machine queried his identity. As soon as the door unlocked, he walked inside, right into the chaos. Jackson followed him and nearly stopped in surprise. Team One had been on downtime, but Team Two and Team Four were scrambling out for deployment and Team Three was already gone. He ducked as someone threw a helmet from the supply lockers to one of the operatives, packing at frantic speed. No one seemed to know what was going on.
“Team Two will take up positions at Gamma Point,” Captain Langley was saying, as they walked into the briefing room. Jackson didn't know Langley very well—he commanded Team Two, which rarely served beside Team One—but he was clearly very concerned about whatever was going on. “We’ll leave in ten minutes and check in once we’re there.”
The Sergeant spied Ron and Jackson before they could announce themselves. “Get your gear,” the Sergeant barked. “I want you to be ready to move out in twenty!”
Jackson saluted and ran for his locker. Thankfully, they had standing orders to have a bag packed and ready to go at all hours. He swung the bag over his shoulder, picked up a selection of pistols and grenades, as well as some of the newer surprises from the techs who designed their weapons, and headed out to the mustering point. The rest of Team One was rapidly gathering there.
“Hey,” someone yelled. “There’s a broadcast on TV—you have to see it!”
Jackson followed the others into the briefing room and looked at the main screen, which had been switched to CNN. A golden face had appeared on it, staring right into the camera and out at the watching population. The stream of information running along the bottom of the screen confirmed that the message was going out on all news channels, while entertainment channels were suggesting to their viewers that they switched to the news immediately.
Hope—he was instantly recognisable—looked grim, but determined. Jackson felt a shiver running down his spine before the superhuman uttered a single word. All of their scenarios for dealing with a superhuman of such power ended with at least half the team dead.
“It was my hope,” Hope said, “that I could set an example that would lead the rest of the world to work to solve the problems gripping the Third World. Instead, Western Governments have not only refused to help, they have actively sabotaged my operations and ensured that the suffering of the Congo—and the rest of the continent—became prolonged. This culminated with an assassination attempt aimed at me personally by the American Superhuman Defence Initiative. The assassin was interrogated telepathically by two telepaths working for the United Nations and they confirm that she was ordered to kill me personally.
“The American Government has failed in its duty to uphold the values of the United States. It has allowed mining corporations to prevent any help from being dispatched from America, despite the fact that those corporations paid vast bribes to the warlords and happily raped the Congo while its inhabitants suffered. Instead of helping to prevent such disasters from happening, the government stood by and did nothing while people suffered—it even allowed the CIA to arm some of the warlord factions in the hopes of ending up with a friendly government that would, no doubt, allow the corporations to continue to rape the Congo while people died. The American Government did not even stand up for the Americans caught up in the fighting, or punish those responsible for their deaths.
“It is the duty of every American to hold their government to account,” he concluded. “I therefore give notice that I intend to remove the current government and replace it with one that will better represent the people and respond to the crisis points in the world. We do not wish to harm civilian and military personnel, but be warned. Any resistance will be harshly crushed.”
His image vanished from the screen. Jackson stared, unable to believe what he’d heard. The world had just changed—and not for the better. Everyone else seemed just as stunned.
“We’re at war,” Lane said, his voice cutting through the shock. “Get ready to move, now!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hope turned to face Mimic as the superhuman appeared out of the shadows, his naked skin shifting colour to blend in with his surroundings. It was a remarkable effect, one that had helped him to assassinate a number of Libya’s higher-ranking officials during the intervention. Even Hope’s senses couldn't see him from a distance.
“You just went and declared war on the entire United States,” Mimic snapped. He’d never been scared of Hope, or unwilling to criticise him if he felt it was necessary. “What the fuck do you think you are doing?”
Hope stared back at him, unable to escape the twinges of pain that kept running through his body where the ghost girl had touched him. Pain wasn't something he was used to experiencing, not pain that seemed to defy all of the mental discipline he’d learned from the SDI. It even seemed to be invulnerable to the painkillers he’d downed after rejecting the Redeemer’s offer of a mental block. But then, he couldn't really get drunk—why would he assume that painkillers would work, either?
“They tried to kill me,” he said, sharply. “And they blocked all international aid that might have helped us save the country...”
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